


Gold Card

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Bill's a hitman, Gun Violence, M/M, So yeah
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 06:50:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14563386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Dipper grumbles in reply but continues digging anyway, and eventually stumbles upon a piece of paper, folded in half. Nothing else. What?“Read it.”Okay, okay, yeesh.Dipper unfolds the paper. Printed on the page are two words, big and bold:SAY GOODBYE.Dipper isn't given the chance to react; something cold and metallic is pressed against his neck, causing him to freeze.





	Gold Card

**Author's Note:**

> I've been so tired lately, honestly.
> 
> Anyway, this is a short stupid thing I did. I'm not used to writing anything that isn't, like, domestically realistic so this is me leaving my comfort zone.
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://featheredkit.tumblr.com)

The last thing Dipper expected on his day off from classes was a knock on the door, followed by a shout of “Delivery!” via the person on the other end—mostly because Dipper can't quite remember having ordered anything that warrants a delivery in the first place.

Whereas his head was buried in his calculus book a second before, he is now turned slightly in his chair as he stares at the door with a puzzled expression. This has to be a mistake, right? He’s not huge on online shopping, having only done it once or twice, and the mail is _always_ delivered to the first floor of the apartment building, where are the mailboxes are.

Unless someone—most likely Mabel, meaning to surprise him with some obscure gift—had decided to send him something… But no. Then the person at the front desk would have been given the package and Dipper would have been called down to pick it up.

A million little things in the moment raises red flags. Standing slowly, Dipper begins to make his way into the kitchen. Maybe if he’s quiet enough the person at the door will go away…

“There’s no use playing that game, kid! I know you’re in there.”

Go figure. Dipper silently reaches into the nearest drawer and pulls out a knife, meaning to defend himself should the situation come to. Or maybe he’s just being paranoid. _This could be a mistake._ However, he finds that very unlikely.

He’s about to ask what the delivery is, but promptly clamps his mouth shut. No, the person outside the apartment could just be saying that to get him to talk. He clutches the handle of the knife and approaches the door.

“C’mon, what’s wrong? Too scared to talk?”

The voice on the other end is male, no doubt about that. No one Dipper has ever heard speak before.

“No need to be so scared, y’know. The only reason I'm up here was ‘cause I was told to have this handed to you personally. The nice lady at the front desk let me up.”

That would certainly explain a lot… Dipper lowers the arm holding the knife and practically presses himself up against the door, listening. He shifts his foot slightly…

...and a loud groan reverberates around the room.

He swears under his breath. Right. Dinghy floorboard. Stupid landlord, never bothering to have anything fixed.

“So you _are_ in there, huh?”

Dipper exhales through his nose. “L–listen, who's that package supposed to be for, anyway? I never ordered anything.” Yeah, yeah, that sounds reasonable. “You must have the wrong—”

“It’s for Mason Pines,” the stranger replies easily.

 _Fuck._ Dipper takes a step back. “Who was it that sent the package? Why did they want you to give it to me?”

“Beats me. I'm just the delivery man,” is the response, followed by, “Oh, a friend of yours, they said. Uh, rich. Like, takes–a–shit–in–a–golden–toilet and bathes–in–money rich. Know ‘em?”

If Dipper didn't know any better, that sounds like Pacifica. _But_ they don't talk much. And by “don't talk much” he means “almost never talk at all.” Pacifica isn't exactly the Queen of Giving, either, being another corporate turd and all. She's never gifted him before, so why would she do it now?

Dipper realizes after a moment that he hasn't said anything. “O–oh. I mean, yeah, I guess I know her. Hold on a minute.” Bending slightly, he peeps through the eyehole on the door to get a look at the stranger.

Not much detail, besides being blond and carrying a cardboard box in his arms. He wears a blue uniform, a matching color hat rested atop his head.

Okay, okay. Seems legit. Dipper places the knife on the lampstand nearby and opens the door a crack, enough so he can stick his head out.

Up close, the stranger looks much more handsome than Dipper would ever be brave enough to admit—his hair, slicked back, gives his a rather professional appearance, along with the oddly placed bowtie around his neck. Does that go with the uniform? His eyes are a deep shade of hazel that almost looks golden, brightening as Dipper opens the door.

“Ah, hello,” he says, holding out the box. “I came here to deliver—”

“Yes, thank you,” Dipper interrupts, taking the box and balancing it under one arm. Its surprisingly light. “I appreciate it.” As he moves to once more isolate himself, the delivery man throws out a foot, keeping the door open. “What are you—”

“I was told to both deliver it to you _and_ watch you when you open it,” he elaborates, then shrugs upon noticing Dipper’s confused expression. “Don't ask me. I don't make the rules.”

Dipper hikes a brow. “Is this usually a thing that happens when packages are delivered?”

“Rarely. Can I come in?”

Scrutinizing him a second more, Dipper relents. “Fine. But take off your shoes if you're gonna walk around.”

“Will do.” Kicking off his shoes once inside, the stranger adds, “By the way, my name is Bill. You've probably heard of me, right?”

“Uh, no.” Dipper walks over to his work desk, knowing very well that Bill is close behind. He closes his calc book and pushes it aside in favor of putting the box there instead. Using his pencil to cut open the tape, he opens up the box. He can hear Bill shifting behind him.

“That's a damn shame,” Bill says, as Dipper pushes aside the packing peanuts in the box, attempting to find whatever the hell it was Pacifica sent him.

“There’s nothing here,” he says eventually, and means to turn to Bill—who plants a hand on the back of his head and turns him back towards the box.

“It’s there.”

Dipper grumbles in reply but continues digging anyway, and eventually stumbles upon a piece of paper, folded in half. Nothing else. _What?_

“Read it.”

 _Okay, okay, yeesh._ Dipper unfolds the paper. Printed on the page are two words, big and bold:

**_SAY GOODBYE._ **

Dipper isn't given the chance to react; something cold and metallic is pressed against his neck, causing him to freeze.

“Well, _finally,”_ Bill says, sounding relieved. “You have _no idea_ how long it took me to convince that lady downstairs to let me up here.” He sighs. “But it’s alright, I suppose. I'm still getting my payment. Oh, side note,” he adds as an afterthought, “don't move or make noise ‘cause if you do I'll blast your brains out.”

Dipper, taking those words to heart, somehow manages to hold in a pained breath. “I—I don’t—”

“You haven't heard? I'm not a delivery guy, in case you haven't picked up on that by now. Truth is, what I do for a living is much more fun than that. You see, some guy calls me up, says, “Hey, man, you mind killin’ this dude I don't like for me?’ and I say, “Sure, man! It’ll cost this much. Just give me his address and I'll take care of this guy for you.’ Then, when I _do_ kill the guy, the dude that told me to kill ‘im gives me a shitton of cash. _Comprende?”_

“L–like a hitman?"

“Exactly! Gosh, you're so smart,” Bill praises, and pinches Dipper’s cheek using his free hand. “Bet you're wondering who it is who asked me to kill you, huh, Pine Tree? Mind if I call ya Pine Tree? Works ‘cause your last name is Pines.”

Dipper, choosing to ignore that last bit, mutters, “Uh, a little bit.”

“Might as well. You'll be dead in five minutes anyway.” Bill clears his throat. “You ever met Gideon Gleeful? Short, big white hair?” Dipper blanches. “Yeah, see, what he told me what that you're gettin’ in the way of marrying this girl he likes, and, by _God,_ I can’t deny a man who fights for the one he loves.”

“N–no,” Dipper stammers, somehow managing to find his words. “Y–you don't understand. That girl he likes is my sister, and he’s, like, been stalking her. Please, you can’t—”

“I don't care about the _morality_ of it,” snaps Bill, pressing the gun harder against his skin. “All I care about is that I'm getting _paid._ A _lot_ of money, I might add! He really hates you.”

Dipper swallows. “I–I don’t… _Please_ don't…”

“Begging isn’t gonna work, kid. You have any _idea_ how many people have begged me ‘Please don't kill me, I don't wanna die! I'm too _young_ to die!’ Bah! Pathetic. You're gonna die anyway, I might as well help speed up the process.” Bill laughs. “This process will be really fast and painless for you if you cooperate, which is what I suggest. _Or,_ you know, you could struggle, make me mad… In which case I’d cut you open and show you your own intestines so they're the last thing you ever see.”

“Wh– Is there anything I can do…?”

“To stop me from killing you? Sure. You could always just pay me twice what Gideon offered me and I'd walk right out. Maybe kill _him_ for _you._ But, seeing as you appear to be a college student, I doubt you have that kinda money.”

Definitely not. At the moment Dipper only has several hundred in his account—which pales in comparison to the amount Gideon must have paid. He swallows, attempting to formulate a last–minute plan. There has to be a way out of this. This can't be the way he goes out…

“Well, kid, I guess this is goodbye. It was—”

Running on pure adrenaline, Dipper spins around and slams his fist into Bill’s jaw. Bill’s head snaps back, though the gun doesn't leave his grasp—to which Dipper responds by tackling him while he’s disoriented. He immediately reaches for the gun, his hand splayed out over Bill’s.

Somehow, he manages to get ahold of it, pointing it at Bill’s head while straddling him, making sure he stays there. Bill stares at him, wide–eyed, for a minute. Then his surprise melts away and is replaced by mild amusement.

“I have the _weirdest_ boner right now.”

 _“Shut up!”_ Dipper snaps, still attempting to wrap his mind around the fact that he currently has a gun pointed at a man’s head. Not what he had been expecting when he woke up this morning. “I don't feel any better about this, you know!” His hands shake as he holds the gun. “I'm not letting some creep do whatever he wants to my sister!”

Bill smirks. “In that case, I'd say she’s lucky to have a brother like you.”

It’s silent for a while, long enough that Dipper realizes that Bill could overpower him at any moment. He could throw Dipper aside, grab the gun again…

“Why aren't you _doing_ anything?”

“Well, aren't you going to shoot me?” Bill asks. “Come on, you can do it. Just pull the trigger. I won't feel a thing.”

“I–is there another way? A way where no one has to get shot?” Though he keeps the gun aimed, he doesn't have the heart to pull the trigger. There's no way he's stooping to Bill’s level. Gideon’s level...but he doesn't want to die, either.

“You’re really not understanding how this works, I guess.”

“I could pay you!” Dipper blurts without thinking. “I could pay you double what Gideon offered, just n–not all at once. It could be a gradual thing, like a certain amount each month. How much did he offer?”

“Five thousand,” Bill answers. “Are you sure that's what you want? Traditionally, I take my payment all at once.”

“Fine. I'll pay you ten thousand dollars, okay? M–maybe I dunno, one thousand a month? That way it's paid off in ten months.”

Bill groans. “I don't like those numbers you're giving me here, kid. And what do you expect me to say to Gideon? He has the cash up–front. You don't.”

Dipper glances at the gun. “If you say no to me…”

“You won't shoot.”

Dipper blushes. _Shit._

Finally, he says, “There's nothing else I can offer you here, but I don't want to die.”

“Of course you don't. No one does.” Bill eyes him carefully, as if assessing him. “Trust me, kid, you won't be able to afford it. Might as well take your lumps.”

Shaking his head, Dipper insists, “No, no, _no,_ there has to— there has to be a way around it. Isn't there anything else you can do?”

“Even if I didn't kill you today, that Gleeful kid looks pretty persistent. I'm sure he’d just send some other guy after you. Pay him more than me, probably.”

Dipper groans and slams the gun down on the ground, directly next to Bill’s head. Wondering what he did to deserve this. Wondering what's supposed to happen to him now, if Bill really _is_ going to kill him. Wondering if there’s another way, another route he can take to change things…

It doesn't matter. In a blur of motion, Dipper finds himself on his back in the next instant, Bill skillfully pinning both his arms over his head with one hand while the other points the gun at Dipper’s waist, a nonfatal target. “Let me ask you something, kid.”

“What?” Dipper squeaks out, alert.

“You really care about your sister, don't you?”

Dipper nods.

Bill hums, allowing the gun to run lightly over Dipper’s shirt, the metal cold in spite of it not actually touching his skin. “You know what? Since you seem like a good kid, I'll let you live. Unfortunately, it seems I still have a some soft spots,” he sighs, _“but_ don't expect to get off that easy. I'm throwing away five thousand dollars for you. I'll hit you up when I need something.”

Dipper lets out a breath of relief as Bill rolls off him and stands, then offers a hand to help him up, too. “Oh, thank God. Wait, hold on a minute. Was it really that easy to convince you?”

Bill shrugs. “What can I say? I can't deny a man who fights for the one he loves.”

When Bill leaves, Dipper walks aimlessly around his apartment for a few moments, when it was exactly his life had come to this. Eventually he moves towards the door and chances a paranoid glance out the eye hole—and it isn't until he pulls away when he sees a gold card placed on the lampstand, his name printed in white letters.


End file.
